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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 42
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chaper Forty-Two 6 August 1995 Crack! Hermione dropped the bag of owl treats, which spilled all over the floor. When the crack of the second Apparition came, she screamed, as much in frustration as in surprise. “Look what you made me do!” “Well, that’s the thanks we get,” said Fred, pushing the pile of Martin Miggs comics off of Ron’s bed and flopping down on it. “Why should I thank you for making me drop Hedwig’s dinner?” Hermione bent down to collect the treats, blowing on each one to remove the dust as she dropped it back in the bag. “Because,” said George, sitting on the other bed, “we risked life and limb to bring you important information.” “What information?” asked Ron, who was watching two Chocolate Frogs hop across the small table. “Chuck me one of those, and we’ll tell you,” said Fred. Ron scooped up a frog and threw at Fred. It sailed past him and hit Hermione in the chest. “Hey!” “Sorry, Hermione.” “Well, I guess we can all see why they didn’t make you a Chaser,” George said to Ron. “Come on, what’s the news?” said Hermione. She picked up the moribund confection and tossed it pointedly in the rubbish bin. “They’re getting him today,” said George. “Getting who?” Ron asked. “Harry,” the twins said in unison. “Today? Are you sure?” Hermione asked. “Yeah,” said George. “We heard Mum talking to Bill about it.” “When’s he coming? How’re they getting him?” asked Ron. “Don’t know.” Fred patted his shirt pocket, out of which dangled a flesh-coloured string. “Mum discovered one of our little friends here before we could find out more.” “You might have heard a bit of yelling,” said George. “Mum can be bang unreasonable sometimes,” said Fred. “And that’s why we Apparated up here. She thinks we’re in the library de-doxying the curtains.” “But we rushed up here to give you the good news,” said George. An annoyed hoot from the cage in the corner reminded Hermione that she hadn’t finished feeding Hedwig. She went to the cage and held out a morsel. “So that’s why you stayed here instead of going back to Harry,” she said to the bird, stroking the top of its feathered head. “We were so worried.” She looked around the room. “You ought to tidy up a bit.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Harry won’t mind. He’s a bigger slob than I am.” “That’s hard to believe,” said Hermione. “Just like Mum and Dad,” George said. “Always rowing,” Fred agreed. “When’s the wedding?” Hermione felt her face heat up. “Look, you lot—” She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The door opened, and Mrs Weasley stood there, hands on her hips. “I knew I’d find you here,” she said, glaring at Fred and George. “Have you finished with the library?” “Er …” “That’s what I thought. You can just march downstairs and do it and then you can dust and clean the floor of the entry hall.” “Oh, Mum—” said the twins. “Go!” The boys slid off the beds, but before they reached the door, Mrs Weasley shouted, “Wait!” She went to Fred and pulled the Extendable Ear from his pocket. “I thought I confiscated all of these.” “That’s the last one,” said Fred. George added, “We just found it. We were going to turn it in.” “I’d better not find any more, or you’ll be doing all the loos again. Without magic,” said Mrs Weasley. Fred and George left without another protest. Looking around, Mrs. Weasley said, “And you can tidy up in here, Ron. There’s an Order meeting tonight.” “They’re not going to come in here, are they?” “No cheek from you. Hermione, dear, would you mind helping me with the pies? There’ll be some extra people for dinner tonight.” “Sure, Mrs Weasley.” ~oOo~ A half hour later, Mrs Weasley stood back, wiping her arm across her floury face with a satisfied sigh. “That’s that, then. Ready for the oven. Thanks for the help. I’d never have got it finished without you.” Hermione was quite sure that was an exaggeration. Molly Weasley’s best magic, as far as Hermione could see, was expended in the kitchen, but Hermione suspected she enjoyed the company. She talked animatedly as they worked, asking Hermione about her studies, surprising her with a keen knowledge of charms theory and defensive spells. Mrs Weasley was gradually teaching her how to prepare Ron’s favourite dishes. Hermione supposed she should be offended, but somehow, she wasn’t. Hermione, whose mother was an indifferent cook at best, found she rather enjoyed learning to cook, discovering what could be done by magic and what was best done by hand. It was a bit like Potions, requiring a combination of precision, observation, and problem-solving, along with careful wand-work and hand-skill, and there was satisfaction in seeing the pies, lined up neatly and ready for baking. You can definitely see which ones are hers and which ones are mine, Hermione thought. But I’m getting better. A thud came from the hallway, followed by a screech from that awful portrait in the hall: “More blood-traitors and mudbloods! In my home!” “Damn. They’re arriving already, and the kitchen is still a mess,” said Mrs Weasley, running a hand through her flyaway hair. “I can take care of it,” said Hermione. “Thank you, dear. I’ll just go clean myself up a bit. They can wait in the library until we’re ready to serve the food. I hope the boys have finished with the curtains.” It only took Hermione five minutes to have everything ship-shape in the kitchen. She set a pitcher of Pumpkin Juice and a selection of glasses in the centre of the table and went to see how Ron was getting on. The bedroom was somewhat tidier than before, but there was still a collection of feathers, wood chips, and a few owl droppings on the floor under Hedwig’s cage, she noted with disapproval. She swept them up while Ron finished tacking something up over one of the beds. “How does it look?” he asked. It was a Chudley Cannons poster. The bright orange contrasted horribly with the Slytherin-green bedclothes. “Um … okay, I guess.” “Where are you going?” “Hedwig’s out of water. I want to bring up a pitcher before the meeting starts.” Tonks was just arriving when Hermione got downstairs. “Wotcher, Hermione,” she said. “Am I late?” “No, I don’t think they’ve started yet. Everyone’s gathering in the library.” “Thanks.” When Hermione pushed open the door to the kitchen, she was surprised to find it occupied. Professor McGonagall was there with Professor Moody. They were standing very close together, and she was touching him. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Professor McGonagall withdrew her hand from Professor Moody’s cheek and said, “That’s quite all right.” After a moment, during which Hermione didn’t move, Professor McGonagall said, “Was there something you wanted, Miss Granger?” “Oh. Just some water.” Moody and Professor McGonagall were silent as she filled the pitcher, but they didn’t move away from one another. When Hermione returned upstairs, Ron asked, “What’s the matter?” “What?” “You’re all red.” “Just hot.” “I can ask Dad to do some more Cooling Charms on the room.” “That’s okay.” She felt as if she’d interrupted something very private. Professor McGonagall? And Mad-Eye Moody? An hour ago she would have said it was impossible, but there was no denying that the gesture she’d seen was intimate. She’d only caught a moment of it, but there had been something so tender in it, she almost felt as if she’d seen them kissing. Which was a frightening thought. Hermione had never had imagined Professor McGonagall with someone like Moody. She was so self-possessed, so regal and calm. And he was none of those things. Of course, the “Professor Moody” she’d met at Hogwarts had been an imposter, but over the past few weeks she’d observed the real Moody as he came and went from the house, and he seemed gruff and jumpy, and he was, well … She realised with disgust that the word she was trying to avoid thinking was “ugly”. Yet Professor McGonagall had put her hand on those terrible scars, had seemed to be tracing them with her fingers. Hermione looked over at Ron. His freckles and his gangly limbs, his awkwardness, suddenly made him seem very dear. “What’s wrong?” Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?” “You’re looking at me funny.” “No, I’m not.” Ron shrugged. “If you say so.” He bent down over his broom again and snipped at the ragged straw ends of the tail, letting the clippings fall to the floor. ~oOo~ “Oh, thank Merlin,” Minerva breathed as soon as Alastor appeared in the doorway, Tonks and Remus right behind him. Dumbledore stood. “You’ve got him?” “He’s with his mates upstairs,” said Alastor. “Did you encounter any difficulty?” “None. Unless you count Tonks here nearly makin’ a rubble of the Dursley house.” Tonks’s hair went from brown to purple and back again. “It needed a little roughing up. It was too clean. Spooky, really.” The rest of the “Advance Guard,” as they called themselves, spilled into the kitchen and crowded around the table. They were two places short. Bill Weasley stood and said, “Take my seat, Mad-Eye.” As always, Minerva inwardly winced at the nickname, but it didn’t seem to bother Alastor. Snape, who was sitting next to Minerva, got to his feet. “No, you can have mine,” he said to Alastor. “I’m leaving shortly. Lupin can have your seat, Weasley. I’m certain he would like to be seated next to Black. It’s been a full three hours since they’ve seen one another.” “Thanks, Snape,” Alastor said, stumping over to the table. Minerva resisted the impulse to catch Alastor’s eye as he sank down in the chair next to her, but, seemingly of its own accord, her hand moved from her own lap to rest on his good knee. His magical eye swerved around to meet her face for a moment before righting itself to focus on Dumbledore at the table’s head. “We were just discussing Potter’s upcoming hearing,” said Dumbledore. “At Minerva’s request, Amelia Bones has arranged to be the presiding judge, so I think we can count on a fair trial on that score. The only question that remains is how much influence Fudge will have over the remaining Wizengamot members.” Minerva barely followed the rest of the discussion of the options for Potter’s keeping and protection should he be expelled from Hogwarts. She was too acutely aware of the man sitting next to her, and too relieved at his appearance, unharmed, at the meeting. Before his arrival, she’d been plagued with visions of him falling from his broom and lying, broken, somewhere on the stony soil between Surrey and London. Minerva had come early for the Order meeting, and she and Alastor had managed a few moments alone in the kitchen before the Advance Guard set out to fetch Potter. She’d said nothing about her misgivings about his participation in the mission; she didn’t have to. He’d reassured her with his touch that he would return to her, and she with hers that he’d have something worth returning to. Hermione had interrupted before they could say much, and Minerva had no doubt that the girl now knew that she and Alastor were something more than colleagues. Funny, but Minerva had had no impulse to step away from Alastor, to cloak her feelings in her usual veil of propriety and discretion. It had surprised him, she knew, and touched him. As soon as Hermione had gone, he’d kissed her, his hands gentle on both sides of her face. When they broke, he’d looked at her for a long moment, before saying, “I’d better get in there. I need to brief everyone before we get going.” Minerva had waited in the kitchen with Molly, who made small talk about the work they’d been doing around the house. When more than an hour had passed with no sign of the Advance Guard’s return, Molly poured the last of the tea, and sat next to Minerva in silence. Each time Walburga Black’s portrait began to shriek, Minerva stood, only to sink back down when it turned out to be another Order member arriving for the meeting. Albus arrived last, as usual, and his frown at hearing that the guard had not yet returned had done nothing to soothe Minerva’s nerves. Severus had said to Albus, “I’m sure they’ll be here soon with blessed Potter no worse for wear. Moody probably insisted they go down to Wales and double back to ensure they weren’t followed.” Albus had glanced at Minerva, saying, “I’m sure you’re right,” and had called the meeting to order. They’d hardly started when the Advance Guard had appeared at last. The meeting concluded with the assignment of guard duty for the prophecy, and most of the Order, save Tonks, Remus, and Fletcher, left in clumps. Minerva and Alastor waited before stepping out together and Apparating back to Hogwarts. He hadn’t returned to his flat since being released from his trunk, but he seemed to content to stay with her, and she was certainly glad to have him. Of course, it couldn’t go on this way, not with the students returning soon, and she wondered what, if anything, she should say about it. There had been no discussion of the status of their relationship, as if each of them were hesitant to put words to it, but it no longer felt so fragile to Minerva. That evening, as she and Alastor were getting ready for bed, she tried not to grill him on how he was feeling after his first field mission since his ordeal. She’d noticed he’d been taking slugs of the Strengthening Solution from his flask all evening. “It must have been cold, that long flight,” she said as she brushed out her hair. “I could ask Elgar to bring up some hot tea or warm milk.” “Not necessary. Tonks wouldn’t let us go too high into the clouds,” Alastor said, his disgust evident. “Auror corps has gone soft since I left, apparently.” “You did have Potter with you. It wouldn’t have done to let the Boy Who Lived succumb to hypothermia on the way to the safe house.” “He’ll have a lot more to worry about than a little chill soon, I’m afraid. Ah, that’s better,” Alastor said as he released the charm on his prosthetic leg and let it clunk to the floor. “Is it awfully sore?” “Nah, I’m just ready to be free of it for today. Actually, it feels a bit better than usual. Sitting on a broom isn’t as tiring as standing around doing surveillance.” Minerva put her brush down on the dressing table and went to hang her dressing gown in the bathroom. “You’re feeling better these days,” she said, when she re-emerged. Alastor was lying on top of the bedclothes, his arms folded behind his head. “I am. Snape gave me a suggestion about improving my Strengthening Solution. Made a difference. You didn’t put him up to it?” “Me? No. I daresay it would be hard for anyone but Albus to put Severus up to anything he didn’t really want to do.” Minerva lay down on the bed next to Alastor, who put an arm around her. “What’s Albus have on him?” Minerva sighed. “I don’t know, exactly. Albus says it’s between himself and Severus, but that he does trust him implicitly.” “Are they queer for each other?” “No, it isn’t that. When Severus came to us, he was already … broken, and I think Albus was able to take advantage of that somehow, but not in the way you’re suggesting. Merlin only knows what Severus had had to do for that madman.” She shivered. “Back in school, he was already surly, but he wasn’t the sort of boy who enjoyed cruelty. He was far more likely to be the victim, unfortunately. Maybe that’s what drove him to You Know Who. I’m not entirely blameless in that.” Although she had many to choose from, Minerva counted her inability to stop the Marauders’ tormenting of young Severus Snape among the worst of her failures. She’d tried, but not hard enough. And Severus had not been a boy to inspire anyone to go to extremes to help him. “I’m sure you did what you could,” Alastor said. “It wasn’t enough. Severus needed help, but I let those boys run roughshod all over him. Oh, I stopped it when I saw it, but there was so much I didn’t see. I didn’t want to. I was so bloody focused on supporting Sirius—the first Gryffindor of his family, and an outcast among them—that I lost sight of who he really was. And a lot of it wasn’t very nice.” “So there’s history between Black and Snape. That’s why they always behave like a couple of Hippogriff stallions in rut when they’re together.” “I’m afraid so. And I’m afraid of what might happen if Harry is expelled and has to go live with Sirius. Harry already has a sizeable—if understandable—chip on his young shoulder.” “Black wouldn’t be the best influence,” Alastor said. “Lupin will be there, though, and Molly and her brood.” “Only for a while. Molly and Arthur will have to go back to the Burrow eventually, and Remus … well, he’s always let his good sense fail him where Sirius is concerned.” “Mmm,” agreed Alastor. “He’s clearly thinkin’ to take up where they left off, but Black doesn’t seem to be having it. Not surprising. I imagine a decade or so in Azkaban knocks all thoughts of romance right out of a bloke.” “Indeed.” She wondered if he was trying to tell her something. They’d kissed, touched one another, slept in the same bed for weeks, but neither had made a move toward more. Minerva wasn’t certain what Alastor wanted. He’d hinted earlier that he might not be able to make love, but that was right after he’d emerged from his ordeal, and he hadn’t mentioned it since. Perhaps age and disability, not to mention months locked in that damn trunk, had stolen physical desire from him. Anger at a universe that had allowed such things to happen to this good man flushed through her, and she looked away from him, trying to hide it, afraid he’d mistake it for pity. Alastor took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently turned her back to face him. He ran his fingertips gently over her lips. “Minerva …” He leant over and kissed her, tenderly at first, then with greater ardour, and she tried not to hope for too much. He’s wounded, she told herself. He’s a wounded man. “Come closer,” he said. She wriggled toward him and put her hands on his chest. She could feel his heart hammering through his nightshirt. “Closer.” He put a hand on her hip and tugged her up against him. He was hard against her, and she was flooded with a terrible, wonderful longing that pooled between her legs and made her gasp. “Can you possibly want a crippled old man?” he whispered. “I want whatever we can have.” “I don’t know. Me leg …” His hand was running up and down her side. “Tell me what you need,” she said. He kissed her and tugged on her nightdress. “Take this off?” She sat up, pulled the gown over her head, and tossed it on the floor. She was self-conscious for a moment. No man had seen her without clothes since Alastor all those years ago, when they were both younger and fitter. She reminded herself that he’d seen her naked most evenings since his return, however briefly, when they changed for bed, but he’d obviously tried not to look at her. She was about to douse the candles, but his intense gaze stopped her. She leant down and ran her hands up under his nightshirt to his chest and kissed him. His hands moved to her breasts. “Still the nicest I’ve seen,” he said, rubbing a hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She laughed. “You need to get out more.” She took the hem of his nightshirt in her hands. “May I?” “Please.” She lifted it above his hips. She was used to his abbreviated leg now, so she barely registered it. His erection stood stiff and proud, just as she remembered it. Without thinking about it, she moved down and took it in her mouth. He leant up, surprised, saying, “Ah, gods, Minerva … I can’t …” But he flopped back down against the pillow and gave himself up to her languid tongue. She wanted to give him everything they’d both missed over the years, wanted to envelop him completely, show him that, though they were both old, broken, hurt, there was still pleasure to be had, to be taken while there was still time. Every heaving breath, every moan he gave, exalted her. She released him, wanting more. “Now,” she whispered, “is it all right if I get on top?” “Jaysus, god, yes.” She straddled him and guided him into her, slowly sinking down as he filled her, and pleasure mixed itself with memory, and there was a great feeling of homecoming that made her stop for a moment, overcome. She looked at the face of the man beneath her, his decency and courage mapped out in the topography of scars and craters that spoke of loss, of endurance. His good eye was squeezed shut, the prosthesis not spinning for once, but fixed on her face. She began to move, and he groaned. Suddenly unsure of herself, she stopped. His natural eye popped open. Tears filmed it, and her heart moved into her mouth. “Am I hurting you?” “No,” he whispered, and pulled her down to kiss him. His lips and tongue were hungry and demanding, and he put his hands on her hips, urging her to continue, so she did. If their lovemaking was tentative and more careful than in the past, it was nevertheless a triumph over the dark, and over all the other things that had pulled them apart over the long years. It took longer than she remembered for him to finish, and she hadn’t climaxed, but lying against his chest afterward, she felt as complete as she had in years. “You didn’t come,” he said. “Out of practice, I suppose.” “I know I’m not what I used to be. If you don’t want—” “Shh. I do want. I’ve spent years wanting. Just now, I’d like to enjoy having.” He let out a long breath. “I wasn’t sure I could do it.” “But you wanted to?” “Gods, yes. Been thinking about it for ages.” “So have I.” He chuckled deeply and squeezed her shoulders. “Nice to know it isn’t only dirty old men.” They were quiet, their breathing synchronised. She thought he’d sleep then, but he was restless, and she moved off him, thinking he was uncomfortable, but instead he shifted over onto his side and moved his hand down to her sex. “It isn’t necessary,” she said, opening her legs nevertheless. “It is, lass.” She was quiet as he touched her at first, unused to the pleasure of another’s hand, but eventually she let go and gave herself over to him, calling his name and moving her hips to meet his stroking fingers. “Thank you,” she said when she’d regained her breath. He kissed the side of her head. After a few moments, he said, “I’m not giving this up again. You, I mean. I can’t.” “You won’t have to.” They both knew it was an empty promise. There was a war on the way, and no one knew what was to come. ← Back to Chapter 41 On to Chapter 43→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A